The Adventure of Congleton Old Place
by Stutley Constable
Summary: A servant disappears mysteriously and Sherlock Holmes is intrigued, but has a crime really been committed?


Prompt from Knightfury: "Holmes! Why are you up in that tree?"

 **The Adventure of Congleton Old Place**

"A most curious case, Watson," said Sherlock Holmes to me one fine summer morning in 1882. The storms of the previous night had given way to sunshine and I had just come down from my chamber, freshly shaved and quite ready for breakfast. Holmes sat at our little table with a steaming cup of coffee before him and the _Gazette_ in his hands. "You really must read this article! Bizarre does not begin to describe it."

"And a fine good morning to you, too, Holmes," I said, perhaps a little peevishly. "One does like to be seated at table before having a paper thrust at him."

"Oh, Watson!" scolded Holmes and shook the paper at me as I pulled out my chair.

I ignored it until I had a cup of coffee poured and some cream and sugar stirred in. It would be several minutes before Mrs. Hudson brought up our eggs and sausages so I took the insistently proffered paper and began reading the article.

 _Murder at Congleton Old Place!_ Read the headline. I admit I was instantly drawn in, though, I did my best to keep my expression aloof. I hoped to keep Holmes from gloating the way he sometimes did. The article went on, _Before dawn this morning the screams and cries of Jeffry Harbash, under butler of the household of Congleton Old Place, shattered the peaceful morning routine of the staff and awoke Sir Reginald Templeton and his family in the most shocking way. Young Mr. Harbash had been engaged in opening the shutters of the manor home when his fate overtook him. Sir Reginald and three of his servants rushed to the scene to find no trace of the unfortunate man, save one shoe. Constable Sergeant Blevins of the Congleton force was summoned immediately, but there was little for him to discover. He told this reporter that his investigation was continuing and expressed confidence that the murderer and the victim would soon be found. It has also been learned that an inspector from Scotland Yard has been sent for._

 _This is only the latest mysterious incident to occur in this part of Cheshire. Several farmers have reported the loss of sheep and calves in recent weeks and one gentleman reported the disappearance of a fine pony. It is thought a gang of ruffians has been stealing these animals to sell in neighboring counties. Could it be that young Mr. Harbash knew something of these disappearances and was taken in order to silence him? This reporter will remain on the case until the whereabouts of Jeffry Harbash and his fate are known._

I looked up from the article to see Holmes serenely pouring himself a second cup of coffee. The corner of his mouth quirked into a half smile as I laid the paper on the table.

"Well, Watson?" he asked knowingly.

"As you said," I replied. "A most curious case."

"Curious," he said with a nod. "What do you make of it?"

"Well, the ruffians responsible sound quite desperate over the whole thing," I said.

"Ruffians, Watson?" said he with a frown, fixing his eyes upon me in that disapproving fashion I had grown accustomed to.

"They have been stealing away sheep and young cattle, Holmes," I replied and sipped from my coffee as I glanced at the story again. "They have been doing so for weeks. This Harbash fellow must know something about it and perhaps threatened to expose them."

"You cannot really believe thieves of that kind would resort to murder or kidnapping, Watson," said Holmes derisively.

"I would not normally think so, Holmes," I said. "I would expect them to simply disappear and begin their activities elsewhere."

"And so should I," he replied.

"How do you explain it, then, Holmes?" I demanded.

"I do not have enough facts to even begin theorizing," he said and fished his silver cigarette case from the pocket of his dressing gown. He leaned back in his chair and drew out one of the Turkish cigarettes he had recently become fond of and lit it before going on. "To jump to the conclusion that a gang of ruffians has done murder to keep themselves safe is foolishness of the first order in this case. No mention of what clues were found other than the lone shoe of the butler and what he was doing at the time of his disappearance. I need more facts, Watson."

"Should I prepare for a journey into the countryside of Cheshire, then?" I asked, seeing where this was leading. Holmes had been idle for a week and I knew by his demeanor he was more than passingly interested in this case.

"Though I have not been engaged, Watson, I think we shall go to Congleton and see what there is to be found," he said and rose, obviously intending to start right away.

"Can it wait until after breakfast?" I asked.

Holmes stopped and glanced at our door, considering a moment. He nodded and crossed the room to open it just as Mrs. Hudson surmounted the top step with a laden tray.

Our journey was not a long one. We departed on the 9:45 from Charing Cross and arrived in Congleton just after noon. Holmes had been quiet the entire time and I had been content to let him be. It was not until we arrived that he became more animated. There was a spring in his step as we descended to the station platform. The rains that had left London evidently lingered over Cheshire and we resorted to our umbrellas while we sought transportation to Congleton Old Place. Though Congleton was not the bustling metropolis of London we were able to find a trap to hire without difficulty. The driver was unusually pleased to have us climb into his dogcart and we soon discovered why.

"It's a terrible business, sirs," he said over the gentle drumming of the rain on the cart's tarpaulin roof. "Glad we are to be getting your help."

"You know who we are?" asked Holmes suspiciously.

"Gentlemen from London don't come this way so often as we wouldn't recognize you," he said. "Begging your pardon, I'm sure, sir. We was expecting only one inspector, though I'm sure two will be most welcome. A terrible business, it is. Young Harbash was a good lad and I don't care who says what, he had nothing to do with any sheep stealing. I knew his parents, God rest them. Fine Methodists, both. I'm a Church of England man myself, but they were good folk and raised the lad right. Horrible to think he met his end this way."

I was about to disabuse the driver of his notion that we were inspectors sent by Scotland Yard, but Holmes laid his hand upon my arm in warning.

"Is everyone convinced Mr. Harbash was murdered, then?" asked Holmes.

"Sergeant Blevins can think of no other explanation," said the driver and shook his reins to encourage the gelding into a trot. "I'm sure he can tell you everything when you get there. A smart man, is he. Found old Mrs. Perkins' cow when no one else could. And that business at the pub was nice work, too. Folk should be able to have a pint in peace and quiet without worrying about losing their purse to a thief. Settled him properly did Sergeant Blevins. Caught the man red handed."

"And yet he has made no headway on the disappearances of the livestock," said Holmes.

"I don't know about that," the driver replied and shot a disapproving look at my friend. "He's kept mum on the matter. Went down to London to consult with Scotland Yard a while back. Won't tell a soul what he's found. Told me it was so as to keep the perpetrators from knowing how close he is to finding them. I can tell you, though, he's been venturing out with a rifle these past two weeks. And he's been going out at night, not coming back until near dawn. Now why would he be doing that unless there were real danger, I ask you."

Holmes turned a raised eyebrow to me and I shook my head. It seemed as though Constable Sergeant Blevins was onto something.

When we arrived at the manor of Congleton Old Place, a large house in the Georgian style, we found two footmen in oilskins and broad brimmed hats with shotguns on their shoulders standing outside the tall front doors like sentinels. Holmes and I stepped down from the dogcart, opening our umbrellas against the somewhat slackening rain. I paid the driver while Holmes approached the two men.

"We have just arrived from London," said he to them without identifying himself. "I would very much like to speak with Constable Sergeant Blevins."

"Very good, sir," said the older of the two and turned towards the door. "Won't you come in out of this weather, sir?"

We were conducted into the entrance hall of the manor and asked to wait while the footman announced us to his master. A middle-aged maid in black and white livery appeared a moment later to take our hats and umbrellas. She seemed very subdued. I could easily guess why. Soon we were joined by two gentlemen and the footman who had greeted us. The first of the gentleman introduced himself as Sir Reginald Templeton and the second was obviously Constable Sergeant Blevins, his blue uniform giving him away.

"I am so glad you have arrived, gentlemen," said Sir Reginald. "Shocking business, this. Shocking!"

"Glad to see Scotland Yard so quick to lend aid," said Blevins with something of a Welsh lilt to his accent. "Pity it took this sort of tragedy to get a response on this case, though."

I eyed Holmes, hoping he would carry his deception no further. He returned my look with a small, resigned nod.

"I fear you have mistaken us for someone else," said he. "We are not from Scotland Yard."

"Not from the Yard?" demanded Sir Reginald. "Who the devil are you, then? More reporters like that Monroe fellow? I'll have you seen out! We have no further need of the snooping of the press!"

"We are not with any newspaper, Sir Reginald," Holmes cut in before the gentleman could work himself up any further. "My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my associate, Dr. John Watson. We have come to help resolve this matter if we can."

Holmes proffered one of his cards to Sir Reginald. The master of the house took it with a slight frown as if puzzling out what was going on. He glanced at the card and handed it to Blevins who took it with great interest and then shot a gimlet glance at my friend.

"Holmes, you say?" Sir Reginald said musingly. "You are the detective I have read of in the Times?"

"I do not know, Sir Reginald," said Holmes. "I am a detective and the only one by name of Holmes that I know of, sir."

"It's him, Sir Reginald," said Blevins, passing the card back to him.

"Irregular, isn't it?" Sir Reginald asked Blevins.

"Might I suggest we continue this discussion in your game room, Sir Reginald?" asked Blevins without answering. "Private matters should be kept private, if you take my meaning, sir."

Sir Reginald blinked and then glanced over his shoulder where one of the maids was dusting. He turned back to us and gestured towards a door just down the hallway from the entrance hall.

We entered a fair sized room with a large fireplace and a billiards table and half a dozen comfortable looking chairs. The walls were papered in scarlet and hung with paintings depicting a variety of hunt scenes. It was almost a stereotypical gentleman's parlor. Blevins closed the door behind us and then turned a sober look on Holmes.

"I have to know who sent for you, Mr. Holmes," said the sergeant gravely. "If someone has been talking, I need to know who it is."

"I assure you, Sergeant Blevins, I came without invitation or commission," replied Holmes mildly. "I am here to lend aid if I can. Dr. Watson agreed to accompany me as he so often has."

"Well, Blevins, what do you think?" asked Sir Reginald.

"I think, sir, a man in my position would be a fool not to avail himself of the aid Mr. Sherlock Holmes could provide," said the uniformed sergeant seriously. "I'm near to out of my depth on this matter."

It is a rare thing in my experience when an officer of the law is ready to admit he needs the help of a private individual. Blevins impressed me as a man with a good head on his shoulders.

"I will accept your aid, Mr. Holmes," said Sir Reginald. "Harbash was a good man. Jenkins, my head butler, had suggested Harbash would be a good replacement for himself when it came time for his retirement. I admit, I like the young man. He was prompt and courteous and always conducted himself properly."

"In that case, sir," said Holmes with a solemn nod. "I would like to see the scene of the crime."

"There, Mr. Holmes," said Blevins, pointing to a corner window. "We found the window open and Harbash's shoe lying on the floor just as it is."

Holmes and I stepped to the window and discovered the butler's shoe lying below it behind one of the chairs. The shoe was well polished and lay on its side. Holmes knelt next to it for a closer examination. I waited patiently with my notepad in hand.

"Mr. Harbash was not a particularly tall man, I observe," said Holmes.

"No, he is not, Mr. Holmes," said Sir Reginald. "I would say no more than five feet six inches."

"He was neat of habit, as a butler should be," Holmes went on. "Was it usual for him to open the shutters in the morning?"

"And see to it that they were closed at night," said Sir Reginald. "He made his rounds after I and my family retired. He would close the shutters and secure the windows on this floor. Every morning he would open them. Regular as clockwork. I believe the ruffians knew his schedule and waited for him outside this window."

"And why do you believe that, Sir Reginald?" asked Holmes. He drew his clasp knife from his pocket and opened the blade to use it to tilt the shoe slightly, then turned his attention to the window sill.

"As you can see for yourself, Mr. Holmes, this window is nearest the hedge bordering the garden. They took him and dragged him through the hedge and down the slope to the stream. They may have spirited him away in a small boat. I wouldn't put it past them."

"For how long did you hear Harbash's screams?" asked my friend.

"I don't know." Sir Reginald rubbed his chin in thought. "I recall waking with a start at the first sound of them. I was nearly awake already so I leapt from my bed and made sure my children were safe. There was a great deal of hubbub down here so I told my wife to gather the children and lock herself away in our bed chamber. Then I rushed down to find Jenkins and the maids all gathered here. I suppose that all took about two minutes."

"And you heard the cries of your under butler the entire time?" Holmes asked.

"No," Sir Reginald said and rubbed his chin once more. "I think they stopped when I was still coming down the staircase. I'm fairly sure of that."

"The rain was heavier at that time of the morning," said Holmes.

"A veritable downpour," Sergeant Blevins said. "I was up the valley a mile or so on my way back from Chambers' farm."

"What were you doing there, Sergeant?" asked Holmes. He had opened the window and was examining something on the outside sill with his magnifying lens.

"Two nights ago a yearling sheep was taken from Mr. Richardson's farm which is next to the Chambers' farm," explained Blevins. "I noticed that the livestock disappearances were progressing down the valley. I felt my best chance of stopping them was to lay up at Chambers' farm."

"You've had no rest then," I said sympathetically.

"No, Doctor," Blevins replied with a wan smile. "I'm an old campaigner, though, sir. It is nothing I haven't done before."

Given that the man could not have been more than thirty-five I thought he was perhaps exaggerating his experience, but the weathering of his features suggested otherwise.

"Did you note the scrapes on this sill, Sergeant?" asked Holmes.

"I did, sir," Blevins said. "I thought they were made by Harbash's shoe as he was dragged out of the window."

"A shoe would not have left this narrow gouge, Sergeant," Holmes said and stood up.

"A brass nail from the heel could have done so, sir," countered Blevins.

"If the head were worn off and the leather worn down, perhaps," said Holmes. "The condition of the remaining shoe argues against that being the case, though. Harbash was very conscientious of his appearance and maintained his shoes impeccably. Though this one is clearly several years old, upon close examination you will find it has been resoled no more than two months ago."

"How would you explain the gouge, Mr. Holmes?" asked Sir Reginald.

"Until I have made a more thorough investigation, I will not attempt to do so," said my friend. "I will only say that it was done with something sharp, but not a blade. It is only an inch long and positioned on the edge of the sill in a manner suggesting it was incidental to the attack and it begins from below the window."

"One of the ruffians must have made it," Sir Reginald said sententiously.

"It is suggestive," said Holmes with a thin smile. "I would like to examine the grounds outside of this window, if I may. The rain has nearly stopped and it would be best to see things before it returns."

Sergeant Blevins accompanied us outside, pausing only long enough to retrieve his rain cape and, to my surprise, a Martini-Henry carbine and a bandolier of cartridges. Sir Reginald elected to remain inside, but wished us well. He promised to send the inspector from the Yard along when he arrived.

"Sergeant, you said it was a pity it took this sort of tragedy to get a response from Scotland Yard on this case," said Holmes as we walked around the house. "What did you mean by that? I take it you believe the disappearance of Mr. Harbash is directly related to the disappearance of so many animals in this county."

"That is precisely what I meant, Mr. Holmes," replied Sergeant Blevins. I noted he had his eyes on the surrounding property rather than on where we were going. His hands gripped the carbine as if he were ready to bring it to bear at an instant.

"And who or what do you think is responsible for all of these disappearances?" asked my friend. "Do you ascribe to the theory of a band of ruffians stealing them away?"

"I do not, sir," said Blevins. "It makes no sense for one or two sheep to be taken from a farmer. More than that are the disappearances of the sheepdogs. I'm certain three of the dogs were killed, as I found blood and fur in the fields near the flocks of sheep."

"And what killed them, do you think?" I asked.

"I would not like to say, Doctor," he said and fingered his rifle's trigger guard.

"Were there no tracks?" I asked.

"Some," he said with a grimace. "I could make nothing of them because the sheep had trod over the ground and mostly obscured them."

"There have been no wolves in England for ages," I said. "Could it be feral dogs?"

"It could be a feral dog," he agreed. "Only, you see, Doctor, I've never heard of a dog that could make a track as large as the ones I found. Big as my spread hand, they were, though I can say no more about them with certainty."

"Sergeant," said Holmes coming to a stop and regarding the uniformed man seriously. "Tell me what it is you fear. I will not laugh at you."

"Scotland Yard did, Mr. Holmes," Blevins said. "I believe that is why they are delaying sending their inspector, now."

"I will not laugh," repeated Holmes.

"There are tales from up in Axe Edge Moor, Mr. Holmes," Blevins sad hesitantly. "A beast is said to roam the lonely places there. The River Dane flows out of the moor right on down to Congleton. When I saw those tracks in the mud three weeks ago I began to think that the beast might have made its way down the river to here. I requested men from Scotland Yard to help track it down and kill it. I got no response so I went to London and made another request in person. They laughed at me to my face and shooed me out as if I were some school boy telling tales or seeing monsters under my bed. That's when I started patrolling with this rifle, sir. A man alone would stand little chance, I think."

I was surprised a levelheaded man like Constable Sergeant Blevins would believe such a thing. For centuries there have been tales in all parts of England describing fearsome monsters in the hinterlands, the most famous of these is the Black Shuck, but surely they were based in folktales, not fact.

Holmes regarded our friend for a long moment before glancing around at the pleasant, rain sodden garden. I wondered what was going through his mind at that moment but dared not ask in front the constable sergeant. After a short time he turned his steps back towards the window in question and we followed quietly. When we reached the window Holmes stood silently examining the wet ground before hunkering down to have a closer look.

"You can clearly see where the poor man landed, Watson," said he, indicating an indentation in the muddy soil. "And it looks as though someone or something stood here at least briefly."

"Something?" I asked surprised.

"The soil is near liquefied from the rain, Watson," said Holmes. It is difficult to determine any details in this spot. The eves of the roof are too high to have sheltered it very much, you see, and last night's storm was violent."

"Aye," agreed Blevins. "At times the rain came down in sheets like breaking waves. I was driven to shelter under a copse of trees for several hours."

"Why did you not return to your home?" I asked.

"I could not see my way, Doctor," he said simply. "I might have missed the road and wandered off into a ditch and drowned. It was that bad, sir."

"And yet our attacker found this house," mused Holmes. "If it were ruffians, which I do not believe it was, they would have needed to establish themselves here before the storm grew to such an intensity. Or they would have needed to arrive after it broke. Since they did not seize Mr. Harbash when he closed the shutters at night we can safely assume they came here only afterward."

"Delayed by the storm, you think?" I asked.

"No, Watson," said he with a shake of his head. "As I have said, I do not believe the answer to this is ruffians. Sir Reginald did have a good point about the vicinity of the hedge to this window, though. Let us examine it and see what we might find."

I followed Holmes to the hedge which was very slightly downhill from the manor house. The rain was all but ended now, making our investigation easier to conduct. Using his folded umbrella Holmes prodded the branches of the hedge aside, examining the ground beneath. I imitated his actions, hoping to find the boot prints of an assailant, but found nothing to remark upon. The rain had come down so heavily that the taller grass beyond the hedge was bowed over and, in one or two places, hammered flat. I began to despair of discovering any clues at all and was going to suggest to Holmes that we stop for a bite to eat and to ruminate on the matter when he cried aloud with surprise and pleasure.

"Eureka! Watson, look here!" he shouted almost gleefully. "Sergeant, you will want to see this!"

We quickly joined my friend where he stood pushing the hedge apart with his umbrella. I looked where he pointed but was disappointed to see no more than a deep smudge in the soft soil as if someone had slipped in the mud.

"Similar to what I saw up on Creek's Knob last Wednesday, Mr. Holmes," Sergeant Blevins said. "Same width, anyway."

"I'm sorry, Holmes, but it doesn't look like any track I'm familiar with," I said.

"No track I can recognize either, Watson, but a track nonetheless," he said with a hard smile. "And if I am not mistaken, this is a drag mark. Perhaps Mr. Harbash's remaining shoe scraped along here. I believe we should go down the slope towards the creak as Sir Reginald suggested."

I had half a mind to protest, but pushed the notion away. So far Holmes had proven himself to be correct and my faith in his abilities and instincts was such that I was willing to follow even on the flimsiest of clues. Constable Sergeant Blevins worked the action on his rifle, opening the breach only enough to confirm there was a bullet chambered and then clicked it shut again. Seeing him do that I felt in my pocket for my old service revolver and was glad to feel its comforting weight. I suppose all the talk of ruffians and mythical beasts from the moorlands had worked upon my mind, but I felt sure that a forty-five caliber bullet could deal with either eventuality.

As we made our way down the slope, Blevins and I spread out instinctively. Holmes took the lead, Blevins on the left and I on the right in a V formation. Periodically Holmes would pause and examine something on the ground before continuing. His strides became more confident as we neared the water's edge. It was there we found our first solid and grizzly clue. Holmes stopped stock still in his tracks and stared at a whitish object just under the surface of the water on the stream's bank. I stepped closer and was horrified to realize it was a human hand severed at the wrist.

"Good God," breathed the constable sergeant and he brought up his rifle, ready to use it if need be.

"Gentlemen," said Holmes gravely. "Likely the rest of the remains of Mr. Harbash are not far away from this spot. Watson, go upstream some hundred feet and see what you can find. Keep your revolver ready. Sergeant Blevins, go down stream a like distance with the same objective. I will cross the stream here and learn what I can from the far bank."

"It's a bad idea, Mr. Holmes," objected the sergeant.

"I agree, Holmes," I said drawing my pistol from my pocket. "We should retreat to the house and summon more men."

"We shall, Watson, but before we have an army of bumbling armatures destroying what clues the storm has left for us to find I want to have a good look around."

Not waiting for further objections, Holmes waded out into the stream and crossed it, though he was soaked to the waist. When he stood on the far bank he turned back to us and waved impatiently. I shook my head in disapproval but complied with his wishes. Sergeant Blevins did the same.

I could not have been more than thirty feet upstream when to my utter horror I heard Holmes cry in alarm and heard the rushing of something through the dense undergrowth. I splashed across the stream immediately, forcing my way through thorny branches that tore at my clothes and face. I paused to listen for an instant and then rushed downstream towards my friend, fearing the worst. When I came into the less densely grown area I had last seen him in I was startled to find Holmes a dozen feet off the ground standing on a thin branch of a slender tree.

"Holmes!" I cried, thinking this was some sort of bad jape. "Why are you up in that tree?"

"To escape that tiger, you fool!" he shouted back, pointing behind me.

Stunned, I slowly turned to discover the form of a great orange and black striped beast stalking towards me from the cover of the underbrush on the bank of the stream. I raised my revolver, but realized as I did that the weapon was markedly under powered for taking on such a beast as I was faced with. Only at near point blank range would my pistol be able to bring it down, so I did what any sane man would do; I raced for a tree.

The tiger sprang after me, but I was just fast enough to leap and catch hold of a low branch, dropping my weapon as I did. I hauled myself up, feeling the animal swat the sole of my right foot before I could get out of its reach. It was such a powerful blow that it nearly flung me from the branch. Nevertheless, I hauled with desperate, nearly mad strength until I was as high from the ground in my tree as Holmes was in his. Looking down I saw the tiger pacing angrily below. Its tail flicked and it snarled displeasure up at me.

"Are you alright, Watson?" Holmes asked, his tone colored with concern.

"My foot hurts mightily, Holmes, but I am not seriously injured," I replied, unable to look away from our besieger. "Are we safe up here, do you think?"

"These young trees are not large enough for the animal to climb safely," he said, sounding more hopeful than sure to my ear. "For the moment, I believe we are as safe as we can hope to be."

"Sergeant Blevins!" I called at the top of my lungs. "Beware! Tiger!"

"I should have thought of that," Holmes chided himself. "Watson, we must keep the animal's attention focused on us. If we can give the sergeant any advantage it could be the difference between his life and his death."

"Right you are," I said and frowned. "How do we do that?"

"Keep shouting for now," Holmes said.

We did. We called out the tiger's location as it paced back and forth and warned the sergeant if it turned towards the stream. All the while the great beast paced below, gradually becoming less interested in us. After several minutes it turned away and looked as if it would move off into the brush once more, but Holmes broke off a small branch, hardly more than a twig, and cast it at the animal's backside. The tiger whirled and bounded at Holmes' tree. Springing into the air it nearly caught hold of my friend's foot with its outstretched claws. I shouted at it, hoping to provide a distraction while Holmes pulled himself higher into the even thinner branches. His movements seemed to excite the beast and it hurled itself at him again, for all the world like a kitten after a ball of yarn. It was on the tiger's third leap a loud shot rang out and the great beast collapsed to the wet soil at the base of Holmes' tree to lay silent and still and prey no more.

From the bushes near the stream Blevins emerged. With practiced hands he ejected the spent cartridge from his rifle and slipped a fresh round into the chamber. With caution he approached the dead tiger, ready to put another bullet into her. The beast was dead, though. He had struck her through the heart with his first round. As sad an end as it was for the tiger, Holmes and I were glad for it. We descended our trees and thanked the sergeant profusely for saving our lives.

Hours later, with Sergeant Blevins seeing to the tiger and the remains of Jeffrey Harbash, I sat with my foot wrapped and elevated on a soft cushioned stool drinking good English tea in the parlor of Congleton Old Place while Holmes explained to Sir Reginald how he thought the tiger had come to the valley.

"Sergeant Blevins, you will recall, Sir Reginald, mentioned how the sheep and other animals were disappearing from the farms in a sort of pattern," said Holmes, lighting his pipe and puffing it to life. "The progression was down the River Dane, following the valley from the Axe Edge Moor. It had hunted most every night and would likely have attempted taking a sheep from Chambers' farm as the sergeant had predicted. The storm must have upset it, though. I believe it moved further down the valley, possibly seeking shelter."

"Why would it have taken poor Jeffry Harbash, though?" Sir Reginald asked, sounding distressed at the loss of his manservant.

"Mr. Harbash was a target of opportunity, I fear," said Holmes, not without compassion. "I cannot say with certainty, but I believe his appearance at the windows drew the animal's attention. It must have observed him opening the shutters one after the other and anticipated which ones he would open next. It waited in the near darkness before dawn and when Mr. Harbash pushed the shutters of your game room open it snatched him. Understand, Sir Reginald, there was nothing malicious in the beast's attack. It was merely hungry and Jeffrey Harbash was unsuspecting."

"It is a terrible thing, though, Mr. Holmes," said the gentleman. "I shall never be able to enter that room without thinking of him. He was a good man."

"Holmes," I said, interrupting their conversation. "Where do you think the tiger came from?"

"A very good question, Watson," he said and leaned back in his chair. "I'm afraid I have no good answer for you. Tracing the disappearances of livestock up the valley we can say with some surety that it came from the Axe Edge Moor region. Narrowing it down any more than that is problematic at best."

"Tigers are not native to England," grumbled Sir Reginald. "Escaped from a traveling circus, do you think?"

"Unlikely, Sir Reginald, but it is possible," said Holmes.

"I know you do not like to guess, Holmes, but what is your best guess?" I asked.

Holmes frowned at me but gave a shrug and said, "There are a number of well to do men who live near the moorland. Many of them spent time in India. It is possible one or another of these men brought a tiger home to keep as an exotic pet. Such a beast would become accustomed to men and not fear us. Tigers are known man-eaters, regardless. If the beast escaped and caused havoc, such as this one did, would the man responsible for its presence step forward to take the blame? Literally hundreds of pounds in livestock revenue have been lost by these poor local farmers, not to mention the death of poor Mr. Harbash."

"You believe a man is at fault in this, Mr. Holmes?" asked Sir Reginald.

"I do," Holmes affirmed.

"In that case, Mr. Holmes, I want to commission you to find this man and drag him into the open," said Sir Reginald almost fiercely. "It is the very least I can do in memory of Jeffry Harbash. The very least."

So it was that Holmes and I ventured north to the Axe Edge Moor where the River Dane sprang forth and the man responsible for a commoner's death hid behind stone walls and iron fences. But that is another tale for another time.

 **The End**


End file.
